


Hot Cocoa and Heroes

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: B&E to Buddy-Buddy in One Hour or Less, Fluff, M/M, Peter is a dork, Wade is wade, pillow forts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a strange hero breaks into his apartment to hole up for the night, Peter Parker is not pleased. And yet somehow he goes from swinging a baseball bat at the guy to sharing a mug of hot cocoa with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Cocoa and Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Quick Note: I made Gwen alive because, well, because she's Gwen F-ing Stacy, man. She rules. Does Peter have his powers and just not mention it here? I'll let you decide!

When Peter hears the window break, he thinks he does himself credit by not screaming and putting his hands up immediately. Instead he rolls out of his bed, grabs the bat he hides under his bed, and crouches into a ready position with one smooth movement.

 

He lives in a bad neighborhood by necessity (Underpaid entry-level scientists at Stark Industries don’t get paid peanuts, which sucks because at least peanuts would be edible and he’d be able to subsist on something other then Cup Noodles and energy drinks. Instead they are paid just enough that Peter can subsist on Cup Noodles and energy drinks instead of air and misery.). He knew this sort of thing would happen eventually, and had diligently bought a baseball bat in case of robber-clobbering emergency.

 

He’d just sort of hoped he’d never have to use it, because he’s never played a game of baseball in his life and he’s not entirely sure he won’t take his own eye out with a swing.

 

The man who has just broken into his apartment laughs.

 

“Geez, Baby Boy Ruth, chill. I just need a place to crash the night.” The man drawls, and Peter holds the bat tighter and glares.

 

“And this necessitated breaking my window? It’s the middle of December, you jerk, we’ll both have frozen to death by morning.”

 

“We, huh? So you’re cool with the crashing bit?” The insane individual asks, already walking past Peter with absolutely no fear of the bat and heading for the kitchen. “You got anything to eat, kid? I am absolutely starved—I think my stomach finally came back online.” Peter pads after him, mouth agape.

 

“Um, there’s some Chinese in the fridge.” He says before he can think better of it, because Aunt May and Uncle Ben brought him up to be a good host, even to psychopathic window-breakers who are probably going to murder him before the night is out. He stubs his toe making his way into the kitchen after the man, partially to point out the fridge in question and partially to make sure the man isn’t reaching for the kitchen knives. “Mother-hugger—hold on.” He reaches for the light switch, and the man lurches towards him.

 

“No, don’t—“

 

The lights flicker on, and Peter’s bat hits the ground.

 

“Oh my god, are you okay? I mean, geez, no, obviously you’re not okay, just—sit, okay? I have a first aid kit in here. I burn myself on the stove a lot, and cut myself slicing tomatoes, and why am I telling you this, just—sit.”

 

The man does not sit, instead watching Peter with an angry sort of wariness, every line in his frame tense.

 

He’s wearing some sort of red spandex getup, sort of like the Fantastic Four he’s seen on the news, and with the mask and the physique that makes Peter feel even more inadequate than he already does, he’s guessing this guy’s one of the new rash of superheroes that seems to be popping up everywhere.

 

Of course, it’s hard to get the full effect of the suit due to the fact that most of it is in shreds. For that matter, so is the man inside of it. In fact, the only part of him that isn’t wrecked is his mask—the thing is in pristine condition, not a tear in it.

 

“Okay, or stand. I mean, it might hurt to sit, actually and—oh, God, did you get any glass in you when you broke my window, because that’s going to hurt like hell to get out, and just ignore me if you want, I tend to babble when I’m nervous or confronted with more blood than I’ve ever seen in my entire life all in one place. Or both, in this case.”

 

“No worries, it’s kind of cute.” The man says airily, and Peter turns red as a tomato and squeaks, fumbling with the first aid kit as he turns back to the man.

 

“O-Okay, thanks? I guess.” He steps towards him, and the man tenses again. Peter stops, wavering. “May I please take a look? I’ll be gentle.” After a taut moment, the man nods, although he still looks ready to bolt as Peter approaches.

 

The boy puts a hand on one of the few patches of skin that aren’t covered in blood and gently presses the man down.

 

“It really will be easier if you sit. This might take a while.” He says kindly, and the man does so while turning his face towards Peter. He must be staring, through the mask, and the fact that Peter cannot see the eyes looking at him makes him a little nervous. “Um, do you want to—“ He gestures towards the mask, and the man snorts and shakes his head.

 

“Nothing going on up there that you can fix, kid. Besides, secret identity. That’s a thing, right?” Peter nods hesitantly.

 

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean, the Fantastic Four are pretty open about who they are, but I know a lot of heroes aren’t. You really think I’d recognize you?” He asks curiously, and the man chuckles rather darkly.

 

“Not a face you’d forget, sweetheart.” He assures, and Peter can sense a sensitive topic. He clears his throat and opens the kit.

 

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll just take a look at the rest?” The man gives a tight nod. Peter rests the man’s arm on the table and peers more closely at it. Not that he’s looking, he can see that a lot of what he’d assumed were new wounds are actually scars. Layers and layers of scar tissue, and he wonders what the man must have gone through to get such marks. Still, he’s more worried about the wounds that are still causing the man pain in the moment.

 

“I think some of these might need stitches. I took a first aid class, so I know the theory, but you’d probably be better off going to a—“

 

“Nope.”

 

“But—“ Peter tries again.

 

“No dice, amigo. You want to play sexy nurse, that’s cool with me, but _no doctors_.” His voice goes a little funny at the end, rougher and almost dangerous. Peter swallows.

 

“Okay. No doctors. Do you want to take off what’s left of your suit? I can get you some spare clothes.” Wade shakes his head.

 

“Hole in the suit means hole in the skin. Sew 'em up—not together, if you can, but if you can’t, no sweat—and we’ll be fine. Just try to stay inside the lines—think of it like a coloring book with needles.”

 

“…Right.” Peter doesn't want to consider how sewing someone's costume to his _skin_ is 'no sweat', so he resolves to do a good job and not find out any time soon. He considers the amount of suture he’ll need to handle this job, and knows that he has nowhere near enough. Still, if he does the worse and bandages the rest…

 

Then the gash that he’s considering for sewing shivers and _shifts,_ and although another trickle of blood oozes out, he would swear on his life that the wound just got smaller. Much smaller.

 

“Healing factor?” He asks, voice a little high but steady.

 

“Healing factor.” The man agrees cheerfully. Peter looks up to glare at the approximate location of the man’s eyes.

 

“Do you need my help at all?” The man shrugs.

 

“You can kiss them better, if you want, but you’ll have to hurry if you want to catch them all. Ha, gotta catch ‘em all, gotta catch ‘em all…” He warbles.

 

“Pokemon.” Peter sings back absently, and the man laughs and rocks in place like a delighted child. “Well, I guess I can wrap the worst ones so they don’t get anything nasty in them while they heal. And give you something for the pain.”

 

“No morphine, no Vicodin, no mind-altering medication of any kind.” The man orders sharply, and Peter blinks, taken aback.

 

“What—dude, who the hell has morphine in their first aid kit? I bought this thing at the supermarket. I mean Advil, Tylenol, that sort of thing.”

 

“Oh.” The man shakes his head. “Nah, I’d have to down a shitload of all three to even feel it, and that would probably just make my liver even worse off than it already is.”

 

“Right.” Peter agrees faintly. _His healing factor must affect his metabolism._ “If you’re sure, I’ll just—“ He gestures to the bandages and picks up a roll and some antibacterial ointment. When the man doesn’t protest, he starts on the worst wounds, making his way up the arm and down the other, then moving on to the torso.

 

He finds himself humming to fill the heavy silence, stupid songs he remembers from cartoons and TV shows. He is surprised and somewhat pleased to hear the man hum some of them back, especially the obscure and dorky ones.

 

“You’re a weird kid, you know?” The man says after Peter has hummed the entire ocarina repertoire from Legend of Zelda. Peter blinks up at him. He’s not sure, but he thinks the man is smiling. The corners of the mask are turned up slightly, anyway.

 

“Yeah, I-I’ve heard that. A lot.” He admits. The man nods contemplatively.

 

“And you do realize that I broke into your apartment less than an hour ago? Which most people consider a sucky first impression?”

 

“You’ve broken into enough people’s apartments to have a consensus on this fact?” Peter asks him wryly, and the man shrugs. Peter sighs. “I mean, you didn’t murder me in my bed, or rob me blind, and although you broke my window in the middle of winter—which was a dick move by the way—it’s not like I can’t get it fixed. Besides, you’re a hero, so you probably got your butt kicked saving some old lady from thugs or something. I feel like it’s my civic duty to help you.”

 

The man does rigid.

 

“I’m not a hero.” He says coldly. “I’m Deadpool.” Peter is pretty sure that this Deadpool is just being modest—most heroes don’t refer to themselves as heroes—so he just nods and keeps working, kneeling down to work on Deadpool’s legs.

 

“Nice to meet you, Deadpool. I’m Peter Parker. My name’s not as cool as yours, sorry.”

 

“Ah, don’t feel bad, Petey, my real name isn’t cool either. Wade? I mean, little kids splash around in me, and I guess also really old people hobbling around in old-timey bathing suits. Ew, saggy.”

 

What? Ah, _Wading ‘Pool._ Which, wait.

 

“I thought you said you couldn’t give away your secret identity?” He asks a little indignantly. Wade shrugs.

 

“Eh, you seem trustworthy.”

 

“Well, thanks. I won’t go blabbing to the Daily Bugle or anything, although there must be a couple hundred Wades in New York so that would be pretty pointless anyway.”

 

“Thousands. I checked.” Wade assures him smugly. Peter cannot help but smile at this childish satisfaction.

 

“Then I guess your secret’s safe with me.” He looks over his work and nods, turning his smile up at the man. “All done.” Deadpool cocks his head as he looks down at Peter.

 

“…If you wanted to commence with the kissing, you’re in a pretty good position.” Peter notices for the first time that his work on Deadpool’s lower regions has put him firmly between the man’s legs, on his knees. Oh. He yelps, scrambling to his feet. Deadpool howls with laughter. “Aw, are you shy?”

 

Peter scowls at him as he packs away the pitiful remnants of his first aid kit.

 

“Or just not interested.” He snaps. “And just for that comment, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” He cannot help but add in a petulant tone.

 

He can _feel_ Wade’s eyebrow rise, even if he can't see it.

 

“You’re actually considering letting me stay?” He asks, a little incredulously. “Seriously?”

 

Peter shuffles awkwardly in place.

 

“You said you needed a place, right? And it is freezing outside, practically a blizzard. And I have the room.” Deadpool does not seem impressed.

 

“So you’re going to let a total stranger, who has damaged your property and leaked blood all over what little shitty furniture you have, stay unattended in your apartment while you sleep, undefended, in the next room?”

 

“Are you trying to talk me out of letting you stay?” Peter asks archly, and Wade shakes his head quickly.

 

“No, nope, not complaints over here. Although, you know, you’ll probably be a Twinkcicle by tomorrow if you sleep in your own bed.” He hums thoughtfully. “Oh! We can spoon out here on the couch! It’ll be so romantic! We can have hot chocolate and candlelight, and some swanky mood music—“

 

“The candles would be a fire hazard, and I do not need my apartment to be freezing and on fire at the same time. I’m relatively sure I don’t have any music that would be classified as ‘swanky’, and I am very pleased with that fact.” He pauses. “Hot chocolate might be a good idea though.” He thinks he has some milk left, and cocoa powder doesn’t go bad, right? The chill of the room is getting to him, and although he’s in his warmest winter pajamas, he still feels himself shiver a little. Hot cocoa is definitely a good idea.

 

“Seriously?! You are awesome, baby boy!” Wade cries, throwing up his hands in glee. “Slumber party!”

 

Peter sighs, but cannot help but be taken in a little at the sheer enthusiasm the man shows.

 

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

 

* * *

 

It’s probably the weirdest thing he’s ever done, making a pillow fort in the middle of his living room with a strange superhero that has broken into his home and huddling inside said fort while sipping too-hot chocolate. Wade is definitely the weirdest _person_ he’s ever met, constantly bringing up obscure pop culture references and mixing them with crude jokes that really should not make Peter laugh as much as they do. He also looks ridiculous in Peter’s fluffy, oversized blue bathrobe draped over his tattered costume, and he won’t even consider taking off his mask to drink the cocoa. Peter doesn’t see when, but at some point while he’s gathering blankets the man downs the whole mug, which must have burned his tongue something awful, and the mask is firmly back in place.

 

(He must have a really recognizable face, Peter muses. Maybe he’s a celebrity. He makes a note to Google 'Deadpool' later.)

 

And yet, as weird as it is, it’s probably the most fun he’s had in months. Ever since Gwen moved away, he’s been sort of drifting. It’s not easy for awkward, dorky Peter Parker to make friends, even with the erudite scientists at Stark Industries. He’s easily the youngest person there, and his resume is the shortest, and they never let him forget either fact.

 

“Look, it’s a bird! No, it’s a plane! No, it’s Falcon!” Peter is pulled back into the present by Wade’s announcement. Peter looks at the shadow puppet in question, cast on the side of their fort by the light of Peter’s limited edition Green Lantern nightlight.

 

“Did this falcon recently get run over by a semi?” He asks, and Wade huffs, dropping his hands.

 

“Let’s see you do better, brat.” Peter has had long practice in entertaining himself at night to keep the nightmares at bay, particularly after Uncle Ben’s death, so he’s sort of a pro at things like this.

 

Wade coos appreciatively at his handiwork.

 

“Ooh, is this like your day job? Shadow puppet extraordinaire?” Peter snorts.

 

“I wish. No, I work at Stark’s R&D division.” Wade hums thoughtfully.

 

“You must be a smarticle particle, Petey.” Peter blushes, shaking his head.

 

“Not really. I was lucky to get the job. I actually wanted to be a photographer, but it… didn’t really pay well. At all.” Neither does working for Stark, but he doesn’t think that salary is something to bring up so soon after meeting someone. That's one of those things that you're not supposed to talk about on a first date, right? Right up there with crazy exes and weird kinks. Not that this is a first date or anything, of course—geez, B&E is not a meet cute, Peter Parker, get a grip! “I still do it for fun though.”

 

“Ooh! Photograph me like one of your French girls!” Wade swoons, and Peter laughs.

 

“Dork.” He chides, but it’s fond. “What do you do for fun?” Wade is silent for a long moment beside him, and Peter is about to repeat the question, thinking he must not have heard, when—

  
“This is the first time I’ve had fun since I can remember.”

 

“Oh.” Peter blinks, a little taken aback by the sad starkness of this comment. Wade, he sees, is tense next to him. Peter smiles and knocks their shoulders together lightly. “Well, good. I’m having fun too.”

 

Wade relaxes, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulder and pulling him into a warm side hug.

 

“Ah, how sweet! You like me, you really like me!” Peter laughs.

 

“Kind of. I’m crazier than I thought I was.”

 

He cannot believe how comfortable he is, being held by a near stranger whose face he’s never seen, but there’s something about Wade. They just… click. And so Peter finds himself nodding off somewhere in the middle of Wade’s speech about the wonders of Bea Arthur, almost falling over once when his eyes slip shut.

 

“Whoa, careful there baby boy, wouldn’t want to break your nose—it’s an adorable nose, after all, and trust me, nose breakage hurts like a bitch.” Wade catches him and sets him on the ground, pulling a blanket up over him. Peter hums happily, snuggling deeper into the warm folds.

 

“G’night, Wade.” He mumbles, and the man laughs softly, a little sadly.

 

“Yeah, it really has been. Thanks, Peter.”

 

* * *

 

When Peter wakes up, Wade is gone. He stumbles out of their shared fort to find a note on the table and a thick envelope.

 

_Petey—_

_Thanks for the slumber party, baby boy. You look really cute when you sleep, and you don’t even snore! Also, you should really buy a better window that doesn’t break so easily. Not every burglar is as sexy and super-cool as moi!  
_

_Kay, bye!_

_—The ‘Pool Party, Wade_

_P.S. I forever-borrowed your bathrobe since it’s all covered in blood and gunk and you probably don’t want it after that. Plus it’s warm and awesome and smells good. Thnx a bunch!_

The envelope is stuffed to the brim with cash. It’s more money than Peter will make in a year.

 

Peter leaves the money on the table. He carefully folds up the note and places it the drawer of his bedside table. Then he browses new window prices online.

 

The next window he buys can be opened from the outside, provided the opener has clever fingers and considerable experience—two things that Peter is relatively sure Wade has an abundance of. It’s stupid, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever run into Wade again. The guy’s a (strange, crazy, unorthodox) hero, and Peter… isn’t. Heck, he’s not even a damsel in distress—his life is so mind-numbingly average that he doubts he’ll ever be in need of a hero’s assistance. And the guy broke into his apartment and damaged his property—there’s no way Peter should be disappointed about not seeing him again. There was no phone number on the note, or email address or anything. Wade probably has no interest in seeing him again anyway.

 

It’s stupid, but still…

 

A month later, the window slides open.

 

“Hey, baby boy? Do you wanna build a snowman?”

 

And Peter smiles.


End file.
